


Seeing Double

by Talax



Category: LazyTown, Áfram Latibær!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Clone Sex, Face-Fucking, M/M, One Shot, Outdoor Sex, Parallel Universes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 03:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16009688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talax/pseuds/Talax
Summary: On a dreary Sunday, Sportacus wanders into the Lazytown woods and finds someone he never expected—himself.There are two kinds of people: those who would fight their clone, and those who would fuck them.  Maybe Sportacus is a little of both.*Some people write Íþróttaálfurinn as Sportacus's older brother, but I think of them as alternate versions of the same person.**IMPORTANT: THEY ARE NOT RELATED IN THIS.





	Seeing Double

**Author's Note:**

> I just like Áfram Latibær! Sportacus a lot and wanted to write at least one fic for that naughty elf who puts people in trashcans and will pull on your hair if you like it.

It was one of those _especially_ lazy Sunday mornings, where the air was just a little too chilly, the ground was a little too damp, and not even the sun itself wanted to come out and play. That was alright with Sportacus; sometimes it was nice to have the kids playing inside. With everyone safe and no foreseeable danger, Sportacus decided to go to the area he always went on quiet overcast days such as this.

The stream in Lazytown’s woods was small and shallow, but Sportacus knew about a place tucked away from the main path where the water pooled beautifully. He followed the stream against the current among the increasingly bare trees of late October. 

The stream was small, but the water’s current had carved it’s path lower with each new rain over decades, until the stream bed laid several feet lower than the rest of the ground. Sportacus navigated the underbrush expertly, and although several months had passed since he’d visited his secret spot, he found his way in no time.

Up the ledge of dirt and root, Sportacus climbed to find his favorite perch:a crooked tree—the base that had destabilized as the creek grew and eroded the earth around its roots, and ended up growing diagonally, hanging over the water and dropping its leaves like little orange boats in the slow-moving current of the pool.

Before Sportacus settled down among the trees unearthed roots, he heard a little sound disturbing the stillness—a splashing coming from up the stream. He ducked into the underbrush and watched as a figure came into view.

Sportacus observed a person climbing out of the stream and walking carefully around the slightly lower opposite side of the pool. He couldn’t get a good look at him without revealing his position, so he watched and waited. The person stepped back into the edge of the pool carefully and stood in the water, pants rolled up, water splashing gently against his calves. He was very still except for his fingers, twitching impatiently as he looked into the water. 

Somewhere between curiosity and anxiety, Sportacus wondered who the stranger could be. He wasn’t a Robbie disguise; his stature was wrong—far too short and muscular.

The man moved suddenly, grasping the water and pulling out a living, wriggling fish. Creature thrashing in his hands, the man dove to the shore, holding the thing above his head and laughing—that laugh?

Sportacus brushed some of his cover out of his face. He felt his heart stop as the man rolled over; the stranger had his face.

Aside from the stranger looking a little younger, maybe a little less built, and a little blonder in his facial hair—the two were identical. 

Sportacus couldn’t believe his eyes. He started to stand up out of the brush, but ducked right back when he saw what other-Sportacus was doing.

He was _eating_ the fish. Or at least trying to. He had just stuck a _live fish_ that he’d caught from a dirty stream in his _mouth_. Sportacus gagged, audibly enough for the other-Sportacus to notice.

Other-Sportacus looked over, dropping the fish back into the pool in his stupor. Sportacus stood straight up, preparing for whatever would happen next.

Both men appraised each other in dead silence before other-Sportacus broke the silence with a thunderous laugh. “I shouldn’t have flipped around in that fairy circle. I seem to be somewhere I don't belong.”

Sportacus nodded properly in agreement. “We might look the same, but we seem to have… different diets… I would never eat a living creature.”

“And I would never wear such a stiff costume.” The other-Sportacus retorted quickly, stiffening out his body and moving rigidly in what Sportacus had to admit was a pretty good impression.

Sportacus laughed at himself (in more ways than one) and let his guard down a little. “Where you come from, what do they call you?” he asked as he stepped out of the thistle.

“Íþróttaálfurinn. Íþrótta for short.”

Sportacus snorted a little. “Sports elf?” He recognized the meaning, “That's a pretty unusual name. How do they tell you from the other sports elves?”

Íþróttaálfurinn gestured to himself with a little more flair than Sportacus was used to seeing from his own body. “I am _the_ sports elf,” he answered almost cryptically. “Well then, Not-Íþróttaálfurinn, what do they call you then?”

“Sportacus.”

Iprottaalfurinn laughed at that. “Now _that_ is a silly name.”

Sportacus hopped down to the shoreline to Íþróttaálfurinn was and stuck out a hand to shake. Íþróttaálfurinn mirrored the movement and they shook with the same—the very same—vigour and enthusiasm. 

“It seems that we are equals in handshake. I wonder-” Íþrótta’s eyes twinkled with what Sportacus recognized as the look he himself got when presented with a physical challenge.

The two smiled at each other. They didn’t need to exchange words to communicate what they wanted to do. They climbed the bank, bumping into each other in their excitement, and dropped to the dry dirt, shoulder to shoulder, straightening into push-up position. 

“Ready?” One of them—maybe both of them—shouted, “Go!”

They pushed down and back up at the same pace, both deciding to clap between push ups at the same pace, then both spinning between push ups at the same moment. Soon, they were laughing too hard to continue their contest. 

“Old man Sportacus… I don't know which of us is stronger, but we are both undisciplined when there is fun to be had.”

“That is true.” Sportacus said, sitting up and resting his arm over his knee. “Do you know what I miss about being young, Íþrótta?”

“The energy?”

“No, thankfully that's the same.” Sportacus looked up a little hopefully. “I miss wrestling with my friends.” 

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled and Sportacus mirrored it, both clasping onto each other shoulders and trying to knock the other on their back. This was little more productive than their push-up contest, since the two were different enough that they didn’t move in the same exact way; Íþróttaálfurinn was a little more nimble than Sportacus, where as Sportacus was a bit more experienced and calculated. 

Sportacus was too seasoned a wrestler for Íþróttaálfurinn to pin—yet just when Sportacus had Íþróttaálfurinn pinned, Íþróttaálfurinn would use his superior agility to break free.

Both men were dirty and laughing, cursing themselves when the other got the upper hand. They got more sloppy and threw in some less-than-regulation moves as they both became more desperate to win. In a surprise flip, Íþróttaálfurinn was on top of Sportacus, pinning Sportacus's lower half between his legs and pinning his wrists above his head.

Sportacus, although probably stronger than Íþróttaálfurinn, strained rather weakly against Íþrótta's grip. He and his other self shared a look. Íþrótta looked at the place their legs met and let out a hearty laugh.

“I know we're not supposed to talk about boners while fighting but-”

Sportacus laughed too; in this position, their hardening dicks were pressing into each other.

Sportacus thrusted up quickly, enough to catch Íþróttaálfurinn off guard and switch their positions, completing the hold by gripping Íþróttaálfurinn's wrists in the same way.

“I always wondered if I got more dominant or more submissive as I got older.”

Sportacus snorted. “You'll have to find out.”

Íþróttaálfurinn broke free and they renewed their wrestling, undertones of desire tinting each new move. The shift was subtle—sharp intake of breath, heightened struggle, extra friction—blurring the line between fighting and fucking.

Sportacus found himself face first in the dirt with Íþróttaálfurinn grinding his hips against his ass. 

Sportacus moved against the contact, adding a little more friction. “Let me flip over,” Sportacus said, full of confidence, “and I can touch you like I know we like.”

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed at that, and Sportacus recognized it as an excited laugh. Sportacus himself tried to contain that laugh—sometimes made people think he was laughing _at_ them. There was no reason not to laugh now, so he joined his double.

Íþrótta stopped grinding into him for a moment, and forcefully slapped his ass. 

Sportacus gasped in surprise—it was more pleasant than unpleasant.

“No ones done that to you before, huh?” Íþrótta asked.

“No.” Sportacus laughed and squirmed a little. “I can’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Do you want more?” His double asked, grinding against him again.

“Actually… yes I do.” Sportacus felt unusual. It was hard to be dishonest or embarrassed with his other self.

Íþrótta adjusted their position, getting all the way off of Sportacus, sitting legs crossed and guiding Sportacus to lay on his lap. “We look the same, and maybe we are the same but we are from different worlds and it shows. I feel like I understand you already.”

“Really,” Sportacus said playfully, “Well Smartálfurinn, what do you think of me?” Sportacus reminded himself of a certain nickname-inclined villain. Sportacus’s boner grew as Íþróttaálfurinn got his hands into the hem of his pants and underwear, pulling them down enough to reveal his butt. 

“At birth maybe we were the same,” Íþrótta said as he rubbed his hands over Sportacus’s bare ass, massaging the fat and muscle. “But you are so stiff. You try to conceal the playful parts of you. You oppress yourself.”

“Oh.” Sportacus said, scrunching up his face, “that is actually-”

Íþrótta slapped Sportacus’s ass—it stung against Sportacus’s bare skin and Sportacus let the words fall from his throat, grunting as Íþróttaálfurinn struck his ass again.

“I’m right of course.” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and Sportacus noticed one of their differences—the playful, devious edge which tinted Íþrótta’s voice and colored his words more vibrantly.

“Yes,” Sportacus wrapped and arm around Íþróttaálfurinn and with surprise on his side, he managed to reverse their position once more. He held Íþrótta’s hands against the small of his back as Íþrótta squirmed unconvincingly. “But you and are so much more similar than we are different…” Sportacus slapped Íþrótta’s ass with as much force as Íþrótta had hit him.

Íþróttaálfurinn gasped and laughed delightedly. “You can hit me harder than that, old man.”

“You’re pretty obvious yourself, Íþrótta.” Sportacus said, struggling to bring Íþrótta’s pants to his knees. “I might be formal compared to you, but you…” Sportacus accented his statement with a hard slap, “Are a _brat_.”

Íþróttaálfurinn moaned, maybe with even more need than Sportacus had. A buzzing traveled from the place of impact in Sportacus’s hand up his arm and enveloped him. He had never called anyone a brat, certainly never _spanked_ anyone. He considered himself pretty sexually liberated but—he spanked Íþrótta again—his experiences had never seeped into something so… authoritarian… 

Íþróttaálfurinn stuck his butt up more, rubbing his boner into Sportacus’s leg. “You’re right too. But I think we both enjoy being spanked more than we enjoy doing the spanking.”

Sportacus freed Íþrótta’s arms from his grip and rubbed the skin he’d left red on Íþrótta’s ass. “I don’t like to hurt people… even if they—if we? Like it.”

Íþróttaálfurinn shifted, leaning his head against his newly freed arms to prop himself up, as his lower half remained on Sportacus’s legs. “I don’t like it particularly much either but… I have something in mind that might suit us both,” Íþrótta ran his finger against the _‘S’_ of Sportacus’s belt.

Sportacus raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“And you’re very very curious about it aren’t you?” 

“Of course,” Sportacus said, “What do you want to do?”

Íþróttaálfurinn got off of Sportacus and stroked at his beard as he thought. “Get over to that tree there.”

Sportacus did as he was told. He hiked his pants back up and sat down on the ground with his back against the tree, crossing his arms behind his head as he watched Íþróttaálfurinn.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked down at Sportacus. Then stepped into place—first one foot outside Sportacus’s thigh, then the other foot outside the other thigh, just brushing against it. He put a hand on Sportacus’s shoulder, and with the other he carefully slowly pulled Sportacus’s hat off, tossing it aside. 

Íþróttaálfurinn whistled. “Wow. It’s good to see I don’t lose any hair.” He took a blonde curl and ran it between his fingers. Sportacus shivered at the feeling of someone playing with his hair. 

Íþrótta stepped each foot forward a little, bringing his hips closer to Sportacus’s face. He pressed forward a bit more, brushing his clothed half-hard erection again Sportacus’s face.

It was warm and firm and Sportacus felt suddenly dizzy as Íþrótta twisted his hips a little, grinding just a little more against his nose and lips. He parted his lips—just a bit, just to feel the fabric brush across more and _oh,_ how Sportacus loved it… He let out the smallest whimper as Íþróttaálfurinn gently thrusted his hips, tipping Sportacus’s head back just a little more.

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Sportacus didn’t even open his eyes, just let out an affirmative exhale.

“Yes, you would like that wouldn’t you? You want to feel your own cock in your mouth?”

Sportacus moaned and opened his mouth more, leaning forward a bit and attempting to kiss Íþrótta’s bulge.

Íþróttaálfurinn pulled away and Sportacus opened his eyes, seeing Íþrótta suddenly on all fours straddling Sportacus. Sportacus got the distinct impression he was not supposed to be moving, so he didn’t. He restrained himself as Íþróttaálfurinn lowered his head down to his own bulge. He kept his hands behind his head as Íþrótta opened his mouth and licked Sportacus’s erection through his pants.

“Maybe I’ll suck yours instead.”

Sportacus’s lower lip quivered, but he couldn’t contain himself—he laughed a bursting laugh.

“I’m sorry. This is very sexy but I’d rather you not put your fish-sucking lips on my skin.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sat up. “What?”

Sportacus moved his arms from their position to dig around his small backpack. “I always carry a travel toothbrush with me if you really want to-”

“You’re serious?” Íþrótta sat back on his heels, “What’s wrong with a little fish?”

Sportacus handed him the brush and a fresh bottle of water. “A lot actually. I like rolling around in the mud but… a wild animal was just in your mouth.”

Íþróttaálfurinn took both implements and begrudging brushed his teeth. “You’re a real mood kill, old man.” 

Sportacus dug a little deeper in his backpack. “I have lubricant too,” he said as if that would fix the mood.

Íþróttaálfurinn downed the rest of Sportacus’s water, maybe out of spite, and laughed as he tossed the bottle aside.

“You are funny, Sportacus. But for that I’m going to make this harder for you.”

Sportacus smiled, “Harder is better anyway.”

“Put your hands back behind your head. And don’t move them this time.”

Sportacus tucked them back to rest behind his head, leaning back into the tree. 

Íþróttaálfurinn got back on his knees and straddled Sportacus’s legs somewhere around his knees. Softly, he ran his hands—or just the tips of his fingers—down Sportacus’s thighs.

“Making me brush my teeth… for that you don’t get my mouth.” Íþrótta said as he continued dragging his fingers against Sportacus’s pants, making the feeling of static anticipation grow as he edged closer and then further away from Sportacus’s clothed erection, until he was so on edge that the slightest touch of Íþrótta’s thumb just barely brushing against his cock made him thrust in need.

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed and ran his hands down his thighs again, this time hard, digging his nails in; Sportacus moaned with the pleasure of a stronger touch.

Íþróttaálfurinn pulled his hands away and in contrast to his last touch, he barely ghosted his fingers across Sportacus’s bulge.

He alternated between hard on Sportacus’s thighs, then hard against Sportacus’s stomach, and barely brushing against the only place Sportacus really wanted him to touch. 

“You want me to touch you harder?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked.

“Yes,” Sportacus huffed out.

“Too bad.” Íþrótta stood up suddenly, unbuckled his flimsy belt and let his pants slide down to his ankles.

Sportacus opened his mouth expectantly as Íþróttaálfurinn stepped forward.

Unsurprisingly, Íþróttaálfurinn’s dick looked just like his own. And Sportacus was surprised to find how much that turned him on.

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed from his throat and presented the head towards Sportacus’s lips. Sportacus opened up and stuck his tongue out just a little, slowly accepting the dick into his mouth. He sucked the head curiously, pressed his tongue against it, licked up the slit like he knew he liked, feeling Íþrótta tense up in the same ways that he did.

Íþróttaálfurinn pushed himself a little deeper and slid his shaft back and forth against Sportacus’s willing mouth. They were both shocked by the wordlessness understanding, the inherent knowledge they had of each other—Sportacus new just when to bob his head, Íþrótta knew just when to sink deeper. They were synchronized with one another—like the differences in their lived experiencing didn’t mean anything when it came down to physical, innate, carnal desire.

Deeper Íþróttaálfurinn fucked him, until Sportacus was running out of mouth and Íþrótta was still going deeper into his throat, clutching the tree trunk as he pushed his dick as far as it would go. But Íþrótta knew Sportacus’s lungs as he knew his own, and pressed in only for as long as he knew that Sportacus would enjoy, then pulling out and giving him a breather before pressing back in.

Íþróttaálfurinn must have known this innately, because he was losing himself with each new thrust, losing himself in the bliss of his own mouth. Sportacus wasn’t all there either, feeling hazy from the breathlessness of the throat fucking, spit running out of his mouth as he looked up at his beautiful body fucking him.

He couldn’t help himself, he moved his arms to wrap around Íþróttaálfurinn, digging his fingers into his bare ass and spreading his ass cheeks. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked as he pulled out of Sportacus’s mouth.

Sportacus looked up at him, mouth still open as he panted out, “yes.”

Íþróttaálfurinn picked up the lube that Sportacus had taken out of his backpack earlier and placed it in Sportacus’s hands. “If you can get me wide enough before I come in your mouth you can do whatever you want to me.”

Sportacus felt his dick hardening at the thought, and quickly began spread some lube on his fingers and wrapped his arms around Íþrótta again, not wasting any time in pressing into his ass.

Íþróttaálfurinn moaned as the first digit of Sportacus’s finger loosened him up. He lined himself back up and thrusted himself back into Sportacus’s mouth.

Sportacus stayed focused on his task as best he could, but he really _really_ loved getting facefucked.

Admittedly, he rushed the second finger pretty quickly, but he knew himself; he knew just the right amount of pain to incorporate to maximize pleasure. Íþróttaálfurinn grunted and pulled out of Sportacus’s mouth all the way. 

“You’re too eager to fuck me,” he gripped the side of Sportacus’s face, digging into Sportacus’s mouth with his thumb and stretching it open. “Maybe I’ll just keep fucking your face and I’ll never let you fuck me, huh?” Íþróttaálfurinn slapped Sportcus’s check lightly with his cock. 

All the while Sportacus kept pressing into Íþróttaálfurinn’s ass with both fingers, deeper and wider. Íþróttaálfurinn groaned and took his hand out of Sportacus’s mouth.

“You are such a brat.” Sportacus said, breathlessly. “You _need_ me to fuck you.”

Íþróttaálfurinn let go of Sportacus’s head, holding onto the tree instead as Sportacus pushed his fingers in and out. 

“Okay, okay. You’re right.” Íþróttaálfurinn said tilting his head back. “Do whatever you want to me, big boy.”

Sportacus hopped to his feet in a second, then had Íþróttaálfurinn pinned to their tree. “Take off the rest of your clothes.” Sportacus requested, even with his rough action his voice was sweet.

Íþróttaálfurinn threw off his hat and shirt, all bare in the October chill. He felt at Sportacus’s shoulders. “You too. I want to see you.”

Sportacus sort of obliged the request, taking off his backpack, arm bracers, vest, and shirt, but only rolling his pants down enough to free his dick. He stroked himself with one hand and brought the other to Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder, squeezing the muscle.

He moved his hand down to Íþróttaálfurinn’s chest and flicked a nipple like he liked, making Íþrótta jump at the contact. Sportacus quit stroking himself so he could put both hands on Íþróttaálfurinn’s chest, squeezing his pectorals and marveling at how they were soft and hard all at once, just like his own. He felt himself grow even harder as felt all over his younger self’s form, feeling firm muscles barely giving as he pinched. 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s skin grew red in some places, from all the squeezing and twisting and pinching Sportacus was putting it through. But Sportacus couldn’t stop himself; he had his own body before him, and he was being made aware of how handsome he really was, and how very badly he wanted to fuck himself.

When Íþrótta was squirming as if he couldn’t take anymore, Sportacus hitched his legs under his arms and lifted Íþrótta up against the tree.

Íþróttaálfurinn gasped gripping at Sportacus’s muscles the same way Sportacus had just done to him, clutching his biceps in disbelief at his double’s physique.

Sportacus lined his dick up to Íþróttaálfurinn’s ass and slowly but firmly pushed his way in, making them both moan into the stillness of the woods.

Sportacus pinned Íþróttaálfurinn to the trunk of the tree and thrusted up into him, hard and slow as they both got used to the tightness of it. Then he fucked him faster, but still hard and deep. Sportacus had never fucked anyone like this. He would have been too afraid to hurt his partner to disfavor gentleness, but with himself—he knew his body could take it. His body _needed _it.__

__He marveled at his double’s body again, making Íþróttaálfurinn wrap his legs around his back so Sportacus could use his free hand to explore that chest. He pinched a nipple and Íþróttaálfurinn dripped with pre-cum. Sportacus couldn’t resist—he collected some on his palm and gave it a lick. He felt himself going mad with the taste of himself, the scent of himself, the sounds of their identical moans, the sight of his hard body matching in all but the placement of their scars._ _

__“We’re going to come at the same time,” Íþróttaálfurinn voiced his sudden revelation, “Oh god don’t stop fucking me.”_ _

__Sportacus lifted Íþróttaálfurinn away from the tree, holding him entirely of his own strength as he lifted him a bit off his dick and then dropping him back on._ _

__Sportacus could hardly tell which noises were coming from which of them as he buried himself as deep inside his ass as he could, shouting as they came, twin orgasms striking their bodies in wave after wave of ecstasy._ _

__Sportacus lifted Íþróttaálfurinn off his dick for the final time and placed him back on his own feet. The two of them leaned on each other’s shoulders for support._ _

“Wow,” Sportacus said. It was strange to have just shared such intense sexual pleasure with someone he felt no emotional intimacy for. But not strange-bad. It was just different.

“Wow,” Íþróttaálfurinn repeated back. “Maybe I should flip around fairy circles more often.”

“I would welcome you if you found your way back.” Sportacus stepped back and grabbed a towel from his backpack and wiped both of them clean.

“I have a feeling fate won’t bring us back together.” Íþróttaálfurinn slipped his clothes back on. “Although I would love it too.”

“Yes, well. I don’t think we’ll be forgetting this experience anytime soon.” Sportacus stuck his hand out to Íþróttaálfurinn for a last handshake, “Goodbye, Íþróttaálfurinn.”

“Verið þið sælir, Sportacus. Eat some fish sometime.” Íþróttaálfurinn said before heading back where he came from with a spring in his step, upstream and back to his own realm.


End file.
